


build a better home and garden

by hereisthepart



Series: love and great buildings [4]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: M/M, i'm sorry you had to read these sentences back to back, jun does not appear but he's dressed as a catboy, mentions of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 03:16:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21487453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hereisthepart/pseuds/hereisthepart
Summary: Jihoon has certainly made enough poor decisions in his lifetime, about sex and not, to know when he’s doing something out of–what? A desire to give a reason to the bad feelings in his head? To spite himself?This isn’tthat–this is, this is–"I just want–you."Mingyu digests the admission, hummingbird gaze flitting between Jihoon’s eyes, his mouth, back again, his throat, his mouth, hismouth, and why does Mingyu always look at him with an impossible sort of contentment that makes Jihoon feel like being careless with him–with this–is equitable to breaking something irreplaceable?
Relationships: Hong Jisoo | Joshua/Yoon Jeonghan, Kim Mingyu/Lee Jihoon | Woozi
Series: love and great buildings [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1498571
Comments: 20
Kudos: 133





	build a better home and garden

**Author's Note:**

> sir this is my emotional support [high pitched screaming]. title is from ["hard to say (thunder)" by daemon](https://open.spotify.com/track/02OflF20yqhoNcFZ0Ga9ll?si=KqXF3OYRQpug3-_RQy8Gag). as always, you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ljhmyg)/[cc](https://curiouscat.me/ljhmyg).  


* * *

Jihoon wakes up submerged.

It takes a while to muster up the energy to open his eyes, even with half his pillow blocking out the early morning sun. Something akin to defeat tethers him to the bed, and there is one thought more enticing than the rest that whispers _turn your phone off and go back to sleep_. With a sigh, he rolls onto his back, hands folded together on his chest, both wishing that he’d gone to Mingyu’s last night directly from work after all and glad he didn’t. 

It's Saturday. Jihoon has to head into work for most of the day–two meetings, a recording session with a new group, some guides he has to finalize by the end of the month. Then he’s supposed to get ready _at_ work before heading to the party at Minghao’s, _plus_–

He reaches blindly for his phone, yanking it rough off the charger to look at his messages. There Mingyu is at the top (along with early morning texts from his co-producer, and his boss), reminding him to get the Chamisul he wants from a store near Jihoon’s job, because noplace near Mingyu has the flavor he likes. Jihoon frowns up at his screen, already exhausted by the prospect of having to make multiple trips today, and types out the start of an apology text (_I'm sorry and I love you but I'd rather wear wet jeans every day for the next year than do anything today!_). 

He blows a raspberry at his screen, selects-all and deletes, sending back a thumbs up. 

(If he texts that, Mingyu will tell him not to go to the party. If he texts that, Mingyu won't go either.)

He figures Mingyu is already awake–his job has made it impossible for him to sleep too long past sunrise anymore–but it’s confirmed when he texts back right away. A heart, a kissy face. 

Light breaking through the water: Jihoon smiles, though it fades right after, and drops his phone to heave himself out of bed and head towards the bathroom. 

Might as well get the day over with.

* * *

* * *

The only good thing about being tired at work is that Jihoon is _always_ tired at work, mostly because he doesn't know how to relax on the job. He shuts himself away in his studio most of morning to work on guides, only pausing in the early afternoon for a snack and another cup of coffee before the first of back-to-back meetings. At the second, Beomju takes one look at him when he walks in and pulls him aside while the rest of their team settles in to ask if he’s feeling okay. 

Jihoon dismisses the question with a wave of his lukewarm coffee cup, ducking to slide the laptop and faux-leather folio tucked under his arm onto the conference table. “Didn’t sleep well.”

Disbelieving, Beomju squints at him, sinking into the seat beside him. “Okay. If you say so.”

He proceeds to ignore every glance Beomju sends him in his periphery until Jihoon can’t take it anymore and shoots a glare over the rim of his coffee lid and a discreet kick to a shin in between discussing new projects in the first quarter. So of course once the meeting is over, Jihoon with a bundle under his arm and cup flung into the trash, Beomju just follows him right out. 

“Want to grab a drink after work?”

“I have a party to go to–seriously, hyung, I only got a couple of hours. I’ll be fine on Monday.” 

“Let’s have a drink then,” Beomju suggests as Jihoon veers towards the stairwell and away from the elevator lobby, gambling with the hope they’re going to completely opposite floors. “My treat.” 

Jihoon opens the door to the stairwell with his back. “If I say yes, can this conversation be over?”

“Sure,” Beomju agrees with an amiable smile, patting the side of his shoulder. “Just want to see how you’re transitioning back to work and life here.” 

There’s a tightness in Jihoon’s neck, tension digging its way down to tendons and muscle and bone. It’s the feeling of being on the edge of a cliff, trembling on the balls of his feet, not talking because he’s afraid whatever comes out of his mouth is going to be too unintentionally sharp for sympathy before he can look down and take a step back. He squares his shoulders, closing his eyes and stretching his neck from one side to the other. 

An inhale, and Jihoon tips, a foot stepping backwards over the threshold. “Thanks, hyung,” he says, trying to sound like he means it, because he does. “We’ll go Monday.”

Beomju gives him another bro-y pat on the shoulder, nodding once, finally satisfied. Jihoon flees, the door to the stairwell swinging shut behind him with an echoing clang; he clutches his laptop and folio to his chest and starts to climb.

* * *

Jihoon is scrubbing a fist across aching eyes when he walks into the studio and hears, “Oh! Is oppa not feeling well?”

He freezes, drops his arm. _God_. The eternal dim lighting of his own studio masks exhaustion on the worst of days, but he’s too exposed out here and he’s very nearly over it. He’s early to the recording session, but Sungyeon is earlier. Nervous, she clutches something between both hands, standing just outside the booth at the far end of the room.

Jihoon recovers enough to feign bemusement. “Mm? I’m fine. You’re early, we aren’t starting for a half hour.”

“Ah, yeah.” Jihoon watches her, inquisitive, dropping his papers and laptop off at the table outside the booth. “I wanted to show–I’ve been working on–well.”

He has to bury the start of the first genuine smile he’s shown since he got here this morning. “Yes?”

“Jihoonoppaleasetellmeifthesesongsareterrible,” she almost-shouts, bowing quick. Red-faced, she straightens, holding out what he can now see is a USB stick. Her expression is a combination of embarrassment and a distinct air to prove herself. “I’ve learned a lot from watching you, and I want to work hard so you can trust me to have more of a hand in the process.”

Jihoon takes the USB from her and pulls a chair out to sit. “How many are on here?”

“Oh–not. Many. One or two.”

Jihoon looks at her. 

“Okay, six.”

His laugh is mostly an exhale when he turns away. He rubs the space between his brows. “I want to give you my honest opinion, but I can't do that this weekend.” Jihoon avoids glancing at her in the off chance there’s a disappointing slump to her shoulders, instead opting to tidy up the papers on the table. “I promise I will soon, though.”

“You _aren’t_ feeling well,” she says, suspicious, something like concern making her tone unsure, and why are the _kids_ even noticing? 

“Only a little bit,” he admits, turning his head to the empty space next to him, and then up at Sungyeon. “Why don’t you find another chair, and you can help me out today?” 

Eager, Sungyeon nods, darting away towards the door. She flings it open, only pausing to say, “Oppa–your boyfriend–what if he dropped off homemade soup again? Didn’t he do that last time you were sick? You were better the next day.”

“I don’t think his soup has special healing properties,” Jihoon calls to her without looking, smiling down at his papers. “But I’ll ask.”

* * *

The sun is set when Jihoon shuts down shop for the night. He attaches one prop of his costume and throws his hoodie on, keeps the other in the kangaroo pocket. There’s a checklist in his head–wallet back left pocket, keys back right, phone in hand, deep breath in–and he manages to make it in and out of the shop for liquor in under fifteen minutes. 

He’s hopping into a taxi when he gets a text from Mingyu. 

This one says _Come here...I miss you_, and the thing no one told Jihoon about _living_ in his 20s, beyond dorms and class schedules: everyone is busy all the time, always, including his own boyfriend. Hanging out isn’t so much a foregone thing anymore as it is a nearly impossible mission. By virtue of a new project Mingyu’s been working on and Jihoon’s general work ethic, they haven’t seen each other since Monday morning. Even this party–it was supposed to be last week, only now Jihoon is convinced it’s a miracle to get _most_ of your friends in the same room more than once a year.

The car rumbles along as Jihoon texts one handed, one of the bottles of Chamisul out of the bag and held to his temple, smiles fleeting. He misses Mingyu. He just kind of wishes he didn’t have to go to this party first to see him.

(Tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after _that_ one, maybe, Jihoon will tell himself he didn't want to go, but he went anyway, and that's how he knows he’s different. 

For now, he'll let himself be tired.)

* * *

* * *

Jihoon is ringing the buzzer to Minghao’s building, bottles clinking together in the bag hanging from his wrist, when Seungcheol calls his name from behind him. It’s hard to see what his costume is under the jacket he’s wearing, but once he’s on the top step, Jihoon snorts. 

“Your uniform?”

“I’m busy, and it was clean!” Seungcheol says. “At least I tried!”

The door unlocks with a buzz and they enter, Jihoon holding it open with his foot to let Seungcheol in, digging around the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie. He grabs his headband and jams it on, pointing, before he starts up the steps. 

Seungcheol follows close behind, voice landing somewhere near incredulous: “Are you a _dog_? Then what is Mingyu?”

“A cat.”

After a moment’s pause, Seungcheol rounds the second floor landing in a jog to catch up. “Funny, I would’ve expected it the other way around.” 

Jihoon sniffs, unimpressed. “Then maybe you should get new material.”

* * *

The apartment is right off the third floor landing. It doesn’t sound raucous, not that he was expecting it to be, and Jihoon has been to Minghao’s plenty of times, but there’s a reticence he has to shake off before he knocks. When someone he doesn’t know opens the door to let them in before slipping back into the crowd, Jihoon is hit by a wave of overstimulation. It’s more than dealing with a handful of teens and twenty-year-olds in a studio, more than the exhaustion that comes from dragging himself out of the house.

He falters; Seungcheol bumps into his back without meaning to. It kickstarts Jihoon’s legs again, mechanical in the way they step in, Seungcheol shutting the door behind them. It’s not overly crowded, a couple dozen people tops, but it’s enough that he’ll have to weave his way around to find Mingyu. He swallows, tugging on the neck of his hoodie, feeling Seungcheol’s eyes on him a beat too long, needing approximately one millisecond in good lighting to clock something off.

“Tired?” he asks, like he didn’t come off his own multi-day shift yesterday. 

Nodding, Jihoon takes a breath, bundling the bag in his arms. “Think I might leave early.” 

“No one’ll care,” Seungcheol says, and then blanches. “I mean–you know what I mean.”

“Mhm.” 

Seungcheol squeezes his shoulder and stands on tiptoe, looking over everyone’s heads. “Where’s Mingyu? Your battery is empty.” 

It’s sweet, and knowing without trying to be; Jihoon laughs under his breath, butts Seungcheol’s cheek with his forehead. He lets Seungcheol direct them through the crowd, a protective arm around him. 

“There,” he says when the mostly empty kitchen comes into view, and Jihoon stops boring holes into the floor long enough to find Mingyu leaning against the counter with a drink in his hand, checking his phone, possibly waiting for a text from Jihoon.

Relief floods. 

Today–he hasn’t had a today like _this_ today in awhile, months, before he moved back, even. And he was scared, maybe, that seeing Mingyu wouldn’t matter. That he’d finally stop _moving_ and look at Mingyu and experience the same vague disconnect he’s managed to push through all day. But, no–he’s shoved, gentle, in the direction of Mingyu’s chest and takes what must be his first _real_ breath in all day.

Delighted, Mingyu makes a noise of surprise, laughing as he spreads his arms out. Jihoon lifts his wrist when Mingyu goes to slip the bag off and drop it on the counter. Seungcheol starts to root around the fridge, the door bumping Jihoon’s hip and he shifts, holding Mingyu around the middle, groaning as he rubs his face back and forth until his headband falls off.

“Oh!” Mingyu catches it, awkward, between the fingers of the hand holding his drink. “Careful.” 

Jihoon picks his head up, chin digging into collarbone; Mingyu juggles everything, and then sets his drink behind him next to the bag. He untwists, and now that Jihoon’s gotten a better look, he pulls a face, absolutely _devastated_. Mingyu has whiskers on. And eye makeup. And a tiny pink nose in the shape of a heart drawn over his own.

Jihoon will scream for ten thousand years.

“I missed you,” is all he says, and Mingyu reacts the way he always does: wide open, taking everything in and giving back twice as much. He places Jihoon’s ears back on, adjusting the wires of one so it’s floppier. A hand smooths down the length of Jihoon’s spine until it comes to a rest at the small of his back.

“Long day?” Mingyu asks, tucking Jihoon’s hair behind his ear. When Jihoon gives a noncommittal shrug in response, he touches Jihoon’s chin with light fingers and skips to the next track:

“No makeup,” he says, jerking his chin towards Seungcheol. “Well. At least you tried harder than hyung.”

Over the sound of Seungcheol squawking indignantly, Jihoon lifts his brows and laughs, a jolt to his system. He really does love when Mingyu is mean. 

“I didn’t have _time_!! At least, at least mine has a hot uniform!”

“SEXY PARAMEDIC!” Soonyoung yells from–somewhere.

Mingyu nudges him. “How did he even hear that?” 

“Sooonyoung has tunnel vision, but only for things that make him horny,” Jihooon says in a mashed up voice, cheek squished against Mingyu. “Gives’im superpowers, like a bat or a dolphin.”

“Horniness via sonar, baby,” Soonyoung says, poking his head out from around the corner. Jihoon narrows his eyes.

“Are you dressed as Sailor Moon?”

“Obviously,” Soonyoung says, flashing a bit of thigh with a saucy wink over a posed shoulder. He deflates, frowning. “You barely even did anything.” 

With a long suffering sigh, Jihoon rolls his eyes, stepping away from Mingyu to tug his hoodie up and over his head. There’s the soft thump of his headband hitting the floor, and a beleaguered Mingyu moving to retrieve it. Jihoon whips his clothing at Soonyoung and crosses his arms. 

“Sexy puppy,” Soonyoung says with a nod, taking in Jihoon’s tousled hair and wrinkle of consternation. “I personally love this turn of events.”

“Hyung...just because you put the word ‘sexy’ in front of it doesn’t make it a costume–oh.” 

“Sounds like something a coward would say,” Seungcheol notes, closing the fridge door with a drink in hand, but Mingyu doesn’t bother to respond. 

He pauses from sticking the headband back on. “Spiked collar?”

“Woof, or whatever,” Jihoon bites, deadpan, lazily turning his head away from Soonyoung and Seungcheol, though the corners of his lips tug when he catches Mingyu’s eye. 

Mingyu looks like he wants to laugh and _also_ pin Jihoon against the fridge for a few minutes, so Jihoon knocks sideways into him instead. He shuffles them towards the counter, slumping when he hits solid wall, not caring that he’s basically draped all over Mingyu. Maybe someone can build them a transportation device, and they can jump to his place. Maybe Mingyu can build them a soundproof bubble.

The sides of the headband slip carefully above his ears, and an arm lopes around his shoulders. Mingyu ducks his head, mouth pressed to the shell of Jihoon’s ear, opened to speak. He stills, then winds his other arm around, too. Lips pressed in a line now, he leaves a stray kiss at Jihoon’s temple. 

“...I _was_ going to tell on you to Nayeon-noona so she could do your makeup, too, but I won’t.” It’s Soonyoung, sounding nearer, softer, reaching around them for Jihoon’s bag. “But I _am_ going to steal your alcohol, and your hoodie, because it smells like you.”

“Please give this one back at some point,” Jihoon mumbles, and there’s a weighted silence while his face is buried, one that makes his eye twitch. He doesn’t know _how_ he knows Soonyoung, Seungcheol and Mingyu are having an entirely wordless conversation above his head, but he does. 

The tightness in his shoulders persists. He tells himself to breathe, and then someone in the other room shrieks with laughter and he flinches. The truth settles like disappointing stone: there’s no way he’ll last here for the rest of the party. For a fucking _hour_. Not unless he wants to spend the night dodging what he conceptually understands is concern but what he _still_ manages to read as pity from anyone who isn’t his friend. 

Shadows step around him, moving out of the room. Mingyu hums a decisive note and gently dislodges Jihoon, holding onto his wrist to guide them through the party. The pace isn’t demanding, just more determined than usual–Jihoon only bumps into his back once–with Mingyu tossing smiling apologies over his shoulders instead of stopping.

They make their way down a narrow hallway, Mingyu headed straight to Minghao’s room and shutting the door behind him. He presses Jihoon up against it and smiles, sweet and encouraging, bopping him on the nose. 

“You look really cute today.”

“Mm.” Jihoon holds onto his forearm, letting his eyes fall half shut. “Thank you.”

“You look really cute,” Mingyu says again, eyes focused somewhere above Jihoon’s head, adjusting the wires of his ears. “And really sad, but pretending not to be, and I don’t know why.”

Right. Of course. 

Jihoon thumps the back of his head against the door, ears knocked askew. “Because _I_ don’t fucking know why.”

Mingyu hasn’t looked at him. With a furrowed brow, he’s intent on fixing the wonky ears again. Jihoon swallows, briefly touching Mingyu’s stomach before letting his hand drop. “I woke up this morning and it felt like my thoughts were too big for my brain.” He glances at Mingyu without lifting his head. “Most of them aren’t particularly nice thoughts, when I listen.”

“Hm. Do you want to tell me some?”

“Not right now,” Jihoon confesses. He’s spent the day throwing himself into work so he _wouldn’t_ think, because it’s hard to fight his base instincts. It’s harder when those base instincts constantly work against him, making it feel effortless to wake up submerged and _keep_ sinking–into his bed, into his head, into nothing, if he lets it. “Tomorrow?”

He’s twitchy, restless, touching the center of Mingyu’s chest this time. There’s a desperation to be closer, to not be at this party, to find a way to explain wanting something he trusts in absolutely to anchor him to the earth. Determined, he reaches down to tug at Mingyu’s belt buckle, knuckles tucking in the space between. Mingyu inhales quick, but holds him off with a hand on his wrist. 

“Do you think Minghao would care?”

“No, but–hey,” Mingyu starts, halting. He cocks his head. “Are–?”

He stops again, studying Jihoon. He doesn’t look concerned, or worried, or even especially troubled. Curious, mostly. Jihoon wonders if it’s because he can tell the difference. Jihoon can. He’s certainly made enough poor decisions in his lifetime, about sex and not, to know when he’s doing something out of–what? A desire to give a reason to the bad feelings in his head? To spite himself? 

This isn’t _that_–this is, this is–

"I just want–you."

Mingyu digests the admission, hummingbird gaze flitting between Jihoon’s eyes, his mouth, back again, his throat, his mouth, his _mouth_, and _why_ does Mingyu always look at him with an impossible sort of contentment that makes Jihoon feel like being careless with him–with this–is equitable to breaking something irreplaceable?

Mingyu asks, “Do you want to take a nap?” 

Jihoon laughs a tired, little laugh, shaky only because it’s been kept even for a whole day through sheer force of will alone. “Yeah,” he says, walking them forward, tugging on Mingyu’s jeans simultaneously. “Let’s nap.”

“You say that,” Mingyu’s legs hit the edge of the mattress and he falls with a huff, reaching for Jihoon, who crawls after him as he tosses his headband on the floor, “but I don’t think you really mean it.”

“Sure I do.” They’re readjusting, Mingyu pushing off the mattress with a foot to slide further up the bed. Jihoon lies down half on his chest. “I like sleeping with you.” 

Mingyu squeaks in response, laughing, his arms coming up around Jihoon. “Good to know,” he says, and he’s snug and firm and close and it’s not enough, so Jihoon slips a thigh between his. Mingyu’s arms tighten. After a moment’s hesitation, his legs spread a negligible amount wider, a hand under Jihoon’s shirt now, somehow. His eyes are closed. Jihoon pokes his jaw. 

“Kiss me,” he demands in a murmur.

The corners of Mingyu’s mouth lift. He cracks open an eye. The result is unbelievably tame; he pecks Jihoon on the mouth once, Jihoon making a noise of dissatisfaction when Mingyu moves away, chasing after it. 

Jihoon kisses him this time around, hard. Mingyu holds his breath, unmoving, a hand on his jaw when they part. Both eyes are open as his thumb trails across Jihoon’s cheekbone. “Will you tell me next time? If you’re at work, I could meet up with you.”

“Why, so you’ll have an excuse to bring new soup recipes?”

He’s teasing, smile splitting into a soft inhale when the arm dug under him winds tight around his waist, his back bowing. “I’d bring obnoxiously colored flowers, maybe,” Mingyu says, mouth brushing his. “One of those anime figurines you like. Me.”

“Maybe just that last one,” _why_ aren’t they kissing yet, “I pick that one–well. I guess it depends on the anime–”

Mingyu laughs against his mouth and kisses Jihoon the way he’s craved for _days_, palm trailing from his jaw, down his shoulder, back under his shirt, touch hot where he nudges Jihoon onto his side, following. He’s enveloped in the best kind of way, arms bundled against Mingyu’s chest, fingers tugging impatient on the neck of his shirt.

“_Jihoonie-ah, did you neglect to say hi to me to fuck your boyfriend on Minghao’s bed?!_” 

They both jump at the cacophony of noise on the other side of the door. Suspended in the moment, they stop kissing, Jihoon brushing their noses together. Soonyoung says, “_God, I hope so, but why don’t we give them some privacy?_” which is the funniest sentence Jihoon has ever heard Soonyoung say unprompted.

Mingyu must think so too, because he snorts, pushing Jihoon onto his back. 

“_Is it possible for us to _not_ acknowledge whatever is happening currently?_” Jisoo’s voice, now. “_And just exist at this party?_”

(“_Great idea!_” Soonyoung chirps. “_Let’s do that, away from here_.”)

“_Youngie-ah, can you please remind my fiancé that I have already informed him we aren’t speaking for the rest of the night because he stole my costume?_”

“_So no, then,_” Jisoo mocks.

(Curious, Jihoon frowns in question at Mingyu. “Jisoo-hyung had a work thing that ran late and said his costume was a surprise. He showed up as a sexy angel, too.”

“Wow,” Jihoon says, impressed. Jeonghan’s gone as Sexy Angel for every and any themed event, whether or not said theme contained any relevance to angels or sexiness, since Jihoon has known him.)

“_Knock twice if you _are_ having sex._”

That sounds like Seokmin. He hears Wonwoo next, chiding as he says, “_Please_.”

"_Ah, right, knock twice if you're having sex, _please."

It’s a brief, ridiculous respite to lose himself in, a perfectly pleasant moment encased in amber, and he’s laughing under his breath when Mingyu covers his hands with his face, his own shoulders shaking. Then he rolls over, cupping Jihoon’s cheeks, and doesn’t kiss him. 

The pads of his thumbs are on the apples of Jihoon’s cheeks. Mingyu presses them into his dimples instead and lifts up. 

“Do you want to come back out with me?”

Jihoon volleys: “Will you stay the night at mine?”

“I’ll stay as long as you want me to.”

Jihoon’s heart does a terrible heart thing. 

They sit up, Mingyu scooping his headband off the floor and carelessly dropping it onto the blanket, already forgotten. He manhandles Jihoon into a stand, and in return Jihoon clutches Mingyu’s shirt by the shoulders once he's standing. 

The edges start to darken; Jihoon lifts his head. He has to leave this room eventually. 

Over the sound of Soonyoung and Seungcheol, maybe, attempting to disperse their friends, Mingyu clucks, biting down on a smile. He wipes at Jihoon’s cheeks with his thumbs. 

“My whiskers got smeared on you. Sorry.” 

"I don't think you’re very sorry," Jihoon whispers, wobbling on tiptoe, asking for–something. One more thing. Maybe two.

When Mingyu kisses him, it’s mostly teeth–mostly a _smile_–and they begin an awkward dance towards the door, Mingyu leading Jihoon by his hips until his back hits the wall next to it. Pinned, _finally_, with arms wound around Mingyu’s neck, feet just touching the ground.

It’s over as quick as it starts. Mingyu wrenches himself away to promise, breathless, “Later,” stabilizing Jihoon with a hand on his elbow when he stumbles back down to earth, existence tilted on axis.

Mingyu readjusts and opens the door enough for Jihoon to spot their rubbernecking friends trying to peek in before he lets it fall mostly shut. The last thing Jihoon sees is Jeonghan trying to worm his way to the front before stopping in his tracks when Mingyu asks Jisoo, innocently enough, “Sexy angel?”

“Sexier_ angel, my slit is higher_,” JIsoo’s disembodied voice corrects now. “_Possibly, I am the sexiest angel ever._”

“_It’s true but it’s not fair!_” Jeonghan wails, trailing off, and Jisoo’s ensuing laugh is second only to Nayeon crying out, “_Mingyu-yah, your _whiskers!”

In the quiet, Jihoon touches his fingers to his mouth. He stays like that until one of Minghao and Mingyu’s friends finds him–Chaeyoung, a younger student artist he’s met once or twice while out with Mingyu. She pushes the door open a bit more, resting her temple against the jamb to take in the mess on Jihoon’s face when he catches her eye. 

“Hello, Jihoon-hyung,” she says, waggling her fingers. “I’m here to inform you that your boyfriend has been dragged into the bathroom to redo his makeup, if you try to look for him.”

“Why does that sound like a threat?”

Chaeyoung shrugs. “Stop making out with handsome men on other people’s beds and my friends won’t have to douse them with makeup remover.” She darts a glance down the hall, towards her left. “At least we get to see how hot he looks with eyeliner on, though. Makes me want to propose or something.”

Skeptical, Jihoon asks, “Aren’t...you a lesbian?”

“Yeah, but,” Chaeyoung looks out towards the party again. “He always has a calming presence. Like he could make me a table from scratch, you know?”

A laugh bubbles to the surface before he can help it; Jihoon buries his face in his hands. “He’s an architect and I love him.”

“Understandable,” she says. “I’d love someone who looks like they could build me a house in the forest, too.”

Jihoon is about to reply when a wild Minghao appears at last, giving his room an amused once over. Chaeyoung excuses herself, aiming a smile at Jihoon before disappearing, and Minghao takes her place in the doorway.

“Can I come in?” 

“This is your apartment, Hao.” 

“Doesn’t hurt to ask.”

He slips in, leaning against the door to shut it. Jihoon pushes off the wall, clearing his throat. Not that he’d ever admit it out loud, but Minghao intimidates him. Always has, even when they were barely in the periphery of each other’s friend circles, and it only got worse after Jihoon started dating Mingyu. He’s not sure why. There’s always this buzz under his skin, though, like Jihoon _has_ to impress him, somehow.

He’s not sure how impressive he can be tonight, but he squares his shoulders with a certain sense of false confidence anyway and hopes it translates. Minghao smiles, close-mouthed. 

“I’m wondering if I should also ask if your intentions with Mingyu are honorable.” 

“Oh, hardly ever,” Jihoon answers. 

Minghao’s smile turns decidedly more wicked. “Good.” 

They take each other in. After a beat, he adds: “Hyung, if you aren’t feeling well, I understand if you want to go home. It's only a party.”

There is a distinct urge in Jihoon to roll his eyes. Instead, he looks away, jamming his hands into his pockets, bottom lip caught between his teeth, smothering a not-particularly-amused smile.

“You seem annoyed.” 

“Not–it’s not at you, I swear.” He releases his lip, aims the smile somewhere at his feet. “Why is it so obvious now?” 

And the crux of it, the reason behind most of his frustration, spoken with his back turned as he heads to the bed to smooth out the wrinkles, overwhelmed and wanting to keep his hands busy:

“I used to be better at this, you know.”

When he comes into view, Minghao's frown is thoughtful. “I don’t think that’s true. I think _this_ is just fewer and farther between now, so another version of you is the one people are used to.”

Jihoon yanks the cover straight, smoothing out the wrinkles with a scowl. “So what, every time I’m sad now, I get to have a dozen people ask if I’m okay?”

Lifting a delicate shoulder, Minghao meets him on the other side of the bed, tugging gently on his end. “The perils of letting people in. They tend to want to know how you’re doing.”

Jihoon grabs a pillow, fisting a corner of it. “Yeah,” he says, because he knows it’s true, and he does appreciate it. It’s only–he thought–

He shakes the wrinkles out of the pillow with more force than necessary, tossing it onto the head of the bed, and looks up: “I thought I was over this. Feeling like this.” 

The smile he gives Minghao is wry, exhausted by his own perceived shortcomings. “I just wanted to go to a party.” 

“You went,” Minghao says. “There’ll be more. Some even on the actual holidays they’re meant for. Probably none where you’ll have to wear a choker again, unfortunately.” 

“Please do not discuss your kinks with me, Soonyoung is bad enough,” Jihoon says, holding up a hand, ears white hot, but he scoffs in amusement when they catch each other’s eye, looking away almost immediately.

“You know what they are,” Minghao says, and Jihoon fluffs up the pillow again. 

“Sure, your kink is you think it’s funny when people are intimidated by you.” 

He peeks when Minghao laughs; he's lifting a brow, absolutely charmed. “You don’t?”

“Yeah, but you’re you and I’m me, no one thinks _I’m_ nice without being bribed first,” Jihoon says as the door opens. It’s Mingyu, with newly redone whiskers. Folded over his arm is his jacket and Jihoon’s hoodie. “Oh! I was coming in to fix the bed. Is it done already?”

Minghao picks an invisible piece of lint off his blanket. “Yep.”

“Want to head out then?” 

This is aimed at Jihoon; Mingyu shortens the distance, lifting the arm with the outerwear on it in question to offer Jihoon's to him. “I told noona you had to wake up early tomorrow and talked her out of doing your makeup.”

“I think you might be my favorite boyfriend ever,” Jihoon admits, grabbing the jacket, and Mingyu bends down to look at him, a hand curling over his shoulder. 

“You’re definitely mine.” He grins. “Let’s go home.”

* * *

* * *

_Going home_ is a lesson in familiarity. 

They don’t talk much–Jihoon, finally able to relax, doesn’t have it in him for anything other than idle chitchat about their week as they make their way to his unit, Mingyu absentmindedly swinging their hands between them. He lets go and hovers when Jihoon unlocks the door, pushing him in with a hand on his hip to the end of the hallway. Once Mingyu’s flicked the hallway light switch and their shoes are off, Jihoon is turned around so Mingyu can undo the collar, pulling his hood out of the way. 

It dangles between Mingyu’s fingers, and he takes it in before buckling it in his hands and saying, “I mean, I guess we can keep it for when we get our own–_ahhh_haha–”

His laugh only sounds a _bit_ hysterical when he walks away; Jihoon watches him, slowly removing his arms out of their sleeves. Mingyu coughs, and flings the collar in the direction of the table near the sofa with too much force, where it slides right off and onto the floor. 

Mingyu does an about face and shoves his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. His eyes skitter to Jihoon and away, bottom lip sucked in. Jihoon hangs his outerwear up. It’s easier to inspect a stray stitch in the sleeve when he says, “I like some dogs.”

The smile Mingyu gives him before he spins around to turn the floor lamp on in the living room is filed away for later. Jihoon hits the bedroom lamp when he crosses the doorway, bathing the rooms in soft lighting, and by the time Mingyu catches up, Jihoon is already tiredly stripped down to his underwear. He falls face first onto the bed with a sigh, goosebumps dotting his arms.

Mingyu digs around a drawer and throws a pair of Jihoon’s pajama pants at his head. “Thanks,” he says, muffled, and when Mingyu drops his phone on the bedside table and says _gonna shower_, Jihoon flips onto his back, brushing his hair out of his eyes. 

He wants to ask if _later_ means _now_ when Mingyu, holding onto the door jamb, leaning half out of it to look, says, “Don’t go to sleep. Okay?”

An ache pulses. Jihoon’s smile is faint, but it sticks. 

“Okay.”

* * *

He wakes up to the squeak of the faucets shutting off anyway. 

Folded up arms and pillow under his head, under the blanket, he waits for the moment the bathroom door creaks open. Mingyu exits on light feet, smile muted matching the glow around them when he finds Jihoon slow-blinking away the sleep. 

He towels off his hair, shivering faintly in boxer-briefs, even though it’s warm. “Sorry,” Jihoon says, but Mingyu just shakes his head, no worries, disappearing to place the towel back on the rack and fold whatever clean clothes he has so he can put them away. Jihoon knows this from experience, because Mingyu is a gigantic weirdo who does things like make his bed in the morning and _not_ leave his dirty clothes on the floor at the end of the day.

Sure enough, he comes out and makes a beeline to the dresser before crossing back to crouch down by the bedside table. He passively checks his notifications, drops the phone back down. A balancing act, Mingyu pivots on the balls of his feet, letting a hand fall into the sea of blankets around Jihoon, inches from his own gathered under his pillow. 

He doesn’t ask how Jihoon is feeling. (Drained, but he usually is when he goes out. The other kind of cloudiness remains, even if disparate, better thoughts are layered on top of it. It’s fine. It’ll pass. Eventually.) Mingyu doesn’t _ask_, even though he looks like he wants to, because he knows Jihoon _doesn’t_ want him to. And it’s this act of being understood that makes Jihoon crumble.

(If he asked, and Jihoon had the guts, maybe he would say something like: _sometimes I'm afraid that one day our happiness won’t be enough for you to balance out the sad parts_.)

“Why do you love me so much?”

It’s out before he can stop it. 

He’s not even asking to get an answer, really. It’s been one of those days where his shoulders are a touch too heavy, the constant running commentary in his head convincing him of all the invented ways he’s a bad person. He tells himself not to, but he starts to believe it, because if it’s in his voice, then it must be true. 

(If you expect the worst enough times because you believe it’s all you’re owed, the best starts to feel like a fluke. Like happiness that can’t _possibly_ stay, an early morning dream slipping through your fingers the more you strain to hold on.)

Mingyu's hand twitches.

He says, "I want to touch you."

How can breaking open over and over again feel this good?

If you’d told Jihoon way back when that he was hiding a Russian nesting dolls’ worth of hangups inside his brain, he would have–well. Agreed. But this is, this is being repeatedly split in two, heart cracked down the middle, seen and heard in every sense, and his brow furrows–

Inexplicably, his vision swims–

He exhales in a gust, into what feels like a cavern of distance in the middle of them. Two warring thoughts simultaneously strike him: _I don’t deserve you_ and another brighter, bigger, reckless and defiant in the way it puts up both middle fingers, a giant frustrated **fuck you, sad gremlin voice!**

Mingyu makes a noise when Jihoon kisses him–inhaled surprise, hands flying up–in such a rush to be within reach that he falls onto his knees and their heads knock together. They laugh into each other’s mouths, hushed, Jihoon kicking the blankets down, shifting towards the middle the same time Mingyu stretches onto the bed with one knee and then the other, looming over Jihoon, caging him in, imposing in a way that is incongruent to the look on his face when his gaze slips between them and he realizes Jihoon is naked already. 

Maybe Mingyu had the self control to attempt to wear some kind of barrier; Jihoon did not. Mingyu shakes his head, chuckling under his breath, pulled in again by the back of his neck. He won’t move away long enough to strip, Jihoon wouldn’t let him go anyway, feels a bit like he’ll sink into the bed unless Mingyu is touching every part of him he can (which really means the boxer-briefs should go right) so Jihoon kisses him in between slipping both hands under the waistband, hauling him closer by the ass, a leg hitched against Mingyu’s hip, and Mingyu's chest empties as he drops his weight. 

There’s no unnecessary background noise, this time around. Nothing beyond the echoes of nighttime–tires rolling over pavement every now and then, the rustle of wind against the windows–and nothing but the intimate, intricate notes in the air of bodies moving together. Jihoon didn’t want an answer but he gets one anyway, gets ten, twenty, a hundred, because the way Mingyu touches him is so all-encompassing. 

He tells Jihoon, "I want you, all the time," in this tender, fragile way, mouth to the hollow of Jihoon’s throat, at the soft curve where neck meets shoulder, over his piercing. Jihoon doesn’t ask how, but Mingyu answers that too: _every way_, jerking Jihoon into a better position by the hips, Jihoon letting him, arms unfurling like wings before propping himself up on his elbows, _any way you'll give me_.

Jihoon is punchdrunk when Mingyu swallows him down, heart scrambling against his rib cage in its haste to claw its way out of his throat. He can taste it, the need bubbling up inside of him and scraping his throat raw, like he’s choking, head falling back, his body slumping, a crown of hair in his fist–

It’s hard to keep track after that. 

When he comes up for air, Mingyu shoves his underwear low enough to wriggle out of. Jihoon figured why he took a longer shower, for all of his earlier restraint, so it’s not a surprise when he stretches to the side, half off the mattress, to dig a condom out from the box Jihoon keeps next to his bed. And it’s not a surprise after that, either, to dissolve into body heat and unsteady, stolen breaths and eventually land here, Mingyu in his lap, on his knees, a hand folded over Jihoon’s shoulder, a slow-building tide rolling in.

Or here, some indeterminate amount of time later:

Jihoon, knocked sideways with want, losing his breath when Mingyu stops holding himself up, spine curved, his temple knocking momentarily into Jihoon’s, a hand heavy on his jaw. He exhales through his nose, holding Mingyu down the same time he rolls _up_, only there’s nowhere else for him to go. Mingyu’s arm shoots out above Jihoon’s head, bracing himself as his own breath catches, sounding broken, free hand flying to his dick, a palm over the head to fruitlessly stop himself from coming, maybe, but Jihoon bats it away, impatient. 

He’s always so responsive, even when they aren’t like this–and when they are, every minute twitch and moan hit has Jihoon straining, urging Mingyu on, and he comes with a shudder, blocking Jihoon in with his arms. Jihoon rocks into him, rides it out, jerking him through it until Mingyu lets out a gasping laugh, cupping the back of Jihoon’s head. 

He swallows through the tremors, mutters a curse, going lax in Jihoon’s arms. Jihoon frames his face, the nape of his neck, slips delicate fingers into the mess on both their chests. Careful, he pushes himself up, keeping Mingyu close, tipping them over until Mingyu’s lying on his back, head at the tail end of the bed, tangled covers underneath him. 

He muffles the soft inhale Mingyu makes with a kiss when Jihoon touches him again, starts fucking him again, maddeningly consuming, and before him, Jihoon never understood the genuine intimacy of wanting to be so close you crash into each other, you break the surface together. He watches, catalogues the most minute of reactions until Mingyu falls quiet, unfocused, closing his eyes as he gathers the bundled up sheets underneath him in his fists. His skin is flushed, the pattern splotchy, chest fluttering as he tries to breathe.

"Again," Jihoon says, only partly a question. Mingyu nods anyway, eyes shut tight, throat bared, so Jihoon picks up the pace, his hand a blur.

In an attempt to be nearer, Mingyu curls up Jihoon holding him with one palm under his jaw. Their foreheads touch; he’s trembling hard, and he tugs painfully tight on Jihoon’s hair with his other hand when he comes for a second time, yanking him down, back arching off the bed. He whimpers through it, knocking Jihoon's hand away when it's too much, and Jihoon stifles a whine of his own when Mingyu’s knuckles loosen in his hair. 

He lifts his head. Mingyu's mouth is pressed together as he struggles to find steady inhalation through his nose. His eyes are wet, and Jihoon _aches_ when Mingyu notices him noticing and _laughs_, breathless, not caring to wipe anything away. It's both familiar _and_ a little self-deprecating, and it's so easy like this, isn’t it?

It’s so easy with him. Even when the discord in Jihoon’s head refuses to let it be. He starts slow this time, gentle in the way he drops kisses under one lid and then the other, lets out an amused sound when Mingyu grabs him by the bicep and jerks Jihoon down onto his chest, muttering words of encouragement. When Jihoon melts at last–buried, sweat-slick, chest-to chest–he thinks this–

_This_ is what he wants: Mingyu so close he can feel every breath in, every soft gasp, every single thing done so wholly _right_ to him, for him, _with_ him. The tension of the day spills out of him and, pillowed on Mingyu with hearts banging between them, Jihoon starts shaking, and shaking, and can’t seem to stop. Mingyu gently pulls him out, Jihoon bereft from the lack of body heat while he briefly rolls to the side to aim a tied condom at the wastebasket. 

“You’re mopping the entire room tomorrow if that missed,” Jihoon says, tired, eyes shut, mouth lifting in the corners when Mingyu rolls back towards him and replies with a sweet, “Shut up,” as he tucks Jihoon in close. 

Mingyu likes to fold himself up sometimes, pretend he’s smaller than he is. Like he reached a certain height as a kid and didn’t know what to do with his hands anymore. He holds onto Jihoon’s now, constantly, crouching down, and a quiet thrill always shoots up Jihoon’s spine from the effort Mingyu goes to to look him in the eye. But he likes when they’re here, too, Mingyu always so clingy, because it reminds Jihoon to let himself be held.

They’re in different phases of breath-catching when Jihoon inhales as deep as he can, brushes Mingyu’s sweaty hair off his forehead with a palm, and kisses him. Slow, only once, their mouths dragging when they part, Mingyu’s arms around him. Then Mingyu does what he does best, and overturns his heart with an unencumbered intensity that terrifies Jihoon sometimes, even as he barrels right towards the spill. 

He says, “You don’t believe in fate, but I found you anyway. And you trusted me even when your head was doing its best to convince you not to. That's why I love you."

(Jihoon has never been able to look someone he’s liked in the eye before Mingyu, is that ridiculous to think, now, right this second? Days, weeks, months, years, he could do this–want this–for _years_, for–)

Jihoon lets his hand fall between them instead; Mingyu reaches for it, loosely twining their fingers together. Cautious, Jihoon asks, “Isn’t it better to think we had a say and chose each other?” 

He could write odes about the subtle, languid smile Mingyu gives him in return. He releases his hold on Jihoon’s hand to touch his mouth instead, and sometimes, Jihoon thinks it’s a little like he was a starving man in the desert handed a glass of water: he’ll take a whole ocean’s worth now, if you let him.

He ducks his head under Mingyu’s chin, eyes falling shut, not yet ready to clean up. In a muffled, sleepy voice, he says, “This is all I wanted all day.”

Bewildered, Mingyu asks, “Sex?”

“Flowers, anime, you.” Jihoon’s eyes flutter open, a small smile hidden against warm skin. “Maybe just the last one.”

* * *


End file.
